The Gent of Ghent
by Revels In Mischief
Summary: A Christmas gift for my friends Jacob and Michelle. Jacob requested an original murder mystery. Merry Christmas!


The Gent of Ghent and the Murder in C6

"How much fucking longer am I going to put up with this," Jacob groaned, rolling his neck as he rounded the corner, almost finally home.

His days at the local funeral home blurred together; the hours slowly melding into what seemed like one continuous day. Contrary to popular belief, he barely made enough to get by, if it could even be considered that, and often his dreams were filled with a lifestyle of well-to-do living.

'At least a little more than breaking even,' he thought intensely.

He pulled into an available parking space at the back of his apartment complex and put on the parking brake; his old, third-hand vehicle was unpredictable at the best of times. Grabbing his satchel from the back seat, he lumbered out of the car. His joints cracked in protest after the laborious strain of the day.

Jacob was only 25, and yet, the strain of the constant lifting, shifting, and odd assignments at work made him feel like he was well into his middle age.

It was normal for the winter season to be busier than most for the death industry. Just today alone he himself went on 3 removals, embalmed 4 cases, and prepped and casketed 5 different individuals. In between all of this, he dealt with the constant burden of a short-staffed firm; the phone rang non-stop, which interrupt the flow of work. He had to prepare multiple people for identification on demand for cremations.

Moreover, he had to deal with the incessant pestering by inexperienced interns.

He looked forward to changing clothes, preparing a hot meal (one of his favorite hobbies), then curling up in the arms of his fiancé Michelle, along with their cat Rosie.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, he looked up the many flights of winding fire escape stairs, his eyes landing on his apartment door on the top.

The downside to preferring the apartment in the historic neighborhood of Ghent in Norfolk, Virginia was the significant lack of any elevator service, no matter how many affordable apartment buildings he researched. Given the different assortment of people attracted to the apartments he could afford, he chose the top floor for the decreased foot traffic and unlikelihood of being bothered by the thundering sounds of neighbors.

It was days like today, however, that he couldn't find a fuck to give about those details. Taking a deep breath, he clutched the rusted railing and began the long hike to his door.

As he began to approach the top step, he dug into his pocket to pull out his house keys. He allowed his muscle memory to assist with his final steps while he focused on figuring out which key he needed to unlock his door.

Finally reaching the landing outside of his door, he leaned his satchel against the brick wall, apartment key griped in his hand. He came to an abrupt stop when he noticed his door was ajar.

'She wasn't supposed to be home yet,' Jacob thought, confused, recalling the conversation he had with Michelle this morning. Her shift at the hair salon in Smithfield would not end until an hour after his own.

"Babe", he called, slowly pushing the door open the rest of the way. He ground to a halt when he took in the sight of a smeared blood trail that slid from the kitchen doorway and into the living room, the continuance of gore hidden from view by the large wall that ensconced most of the narrow kitchen.

"Michelle?" he yelled louder; his brain seemingly disconnected from his mouth as he tried to gather what was going on.

Many times, due to the nature of the business he was involved in, he had observed a scene like this. The years before he began to work for the funeral home, he worked for the area's local removal service, which dealt with the remains of deceased individuals, in cases from natural death to horrific crime scenes. Each time, however, he knew what he was walking into and it wasn't in his own home; most concerningly, death always met him at the bloodshed's conclusion. His hands began to tremor in fear of what he was about to see.

He crept numbly around the corner, eyes following the blood as it shifted and turned. 'The signs of a struggle?' he passively wondered, heart picking up its pace as his imagination took hold, filling his mind with a flood of images; images he dreaded he would soon find in person.

His feet shuffled to another stop as his head turned to take in the abrupt shift of the blood trail as it shifted to the bedroom door at the end of the hall that ran along the other side of the room. The amount of blood increased before it came to an abrupt stop, dammed by the closed door. Stumbling over the scarlet river, absent-mindedly avoiding the disturbance of any "evidence" through years of experience, he sank to the couch, eyes blankly staring at the deadbolted front door.

There was a time when many people had keys to his apartment; he was so familiar with so many people in the trendy neighborhood that a friend once joked that he was "The Gent of Ghent". As he fell into a monotonous rhythm of working in the death industry, first with the 24 hour removal company and then with one of the largest funeral firms in the area, the many people who had constant access to his house had shifted to few, until finally, and most recently, just him and his new fiancé were able to come and go as they pleased.

No one should be in his apartment. And if someone was, he was most certain that what laid beyond that bedroom door would cause the very floor to fall out from under him. His thin frame slowly arose from the couch, as though being controlled by someone else. He took sluggish, heavy steps, inching his way to the distressed door handle. As his hand slowly drifted up to grasp it, he was startled by the slam of a screen door.

"Babe? Jake?" came the concerned lilt of Michelle's voice from the kitchen. Twisting around Jacob took long strides back to the kitchen, his eyes finally resting on the face of who had become everything to him. His breath caught in his chest, his face was void of emotion, in shock of the situation.

"There you are!" Michelle smiled, a large sigh leaving her body. She smirked. "I know you love what you do, but bringing home work again? Really? You could have at least taken your shoes off before you went to change." Before she could say anything else, Jacob grabbed her by her arms, wrapping her in a tight embrace. He buried his face in her neck, breathing in the familiar smell of the salon products and what couldn't be described as anything other than _her_.

"Long day at work?" her voice softened, and her arms wrapped around his waist. She traced small circles in his back as she waited for his answer.

"I thought…I was worried…You…" his voice shook. He took a big breath to help calm his thoughts before pulling back to hold her forearms. "The blood isn't from me," he said, voice calm and focused, taking on his "funeral director" persona.

"Then who…" she trailed off, eyes drawing wide. "Rosie!" She yelled, calling out for the small, long haired cat. A muffled meow came from down the hall. "Rosie?" she yelled again, uncertainty now in her voice, attempting to walk forward, before Jacob stopped her by tugging on her hand. "They could still be here," Jacob said in a soft tone, eyes furrowing as he gestured to the blood.

Michelle hesitated for a moment before straightening with certainty. "No one is here Jake, something would've happened by now. If there is someone here…" she trailed off, taking in the large amount of blood, "they're dead by now… Or at least unconscious. I want to make sure the cat's alright," she concluded, nodding her head in assurance. She drew her hand from Jacob's before walking quickly toward the hall where the meows grew in volume.

Distracted by his racing thoughts, Jacob stood stiffly, listening to the quickening steps and the familiar creak of their bedroom door.

"Rosie! Rosie! Come here you… EW!"

"No, gross, ew…" Michelle mumbled, rushing quickly back around the corner. Rubbing her fingers through her brightly multicolored, short locks she patted Jacob on the shoulder, face pinched in disgust.

"I think that's more your field, Babe. I'll mop up out here".

She grabbed a trash bag from the pantry and handed it to Jacob with a cheeky smile.

Jacob wore a look of confusion, still frozen in place as he watched Michelle begin to grab cleaning supplies from under the cabinet.

"Use the bottle of United282 that I swiped from work. Should be down there. It will kill just about anything contagious," he mumbled flatly.

Finding that his legs were once again working, he traveled to the bedroom, this time out of curiosity instead of fear.

He was met by a smug, grey, long-haired cat that was happily cleaning the blood from her paws in the middle of the hallway.

"What in the world did you get into," he reached down to scratch behind her ears before for entering the bedroom.

What he took in was something he was sure was in some twisted Brother's Grimm story or perhaps even a scene from a Stephen King novel. A large raccoon, or at least the remains of one, were strewn about the room. The covers on the bed in the middle of the room were in complete disarray, and dark red stains left a questionable pattern on the once plain, minimalist sheets.

Rubbing the area between his brows, he felt a headache coming on. At least he knew how to get blood out of fabric.


End file.
